Taking Turns
by sloanwritesstuff
Summary: when a short time alone in their mansion in buenos aires leaves clarice time to think; she has a not-so-innocent idea for hannibal and herself to have a little fun, to do something a bit different than their usual activities. she's got the bait on her hook, waiting to cast the line to him as soon as he comes home. will he take the bait?
1. Your Turn

**Takin****g**** Turns **

**written by: Sloan Richardson**

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

That was the only sound which filled the expansive Buenos Aires home of which Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter shared. Starling sat in a room two rooms from where the clock was, though its sounds were so boisterous that anyone on the same floor could hear it quite clearly, and on the others should there be absolute silence. Waiting, Starling sat on a comfortable couch in the den, one leg crossed over the other as she fiddled with her fingers. There's a slight impatience in her actions, for all she truly wanted was for Lecter to return from his errands. She rather detested times in which she got ideas for the two of them whenever he was not home. It happened a lot more often than she cared to admit.

A pleased smile erupts across her features, however, once she hears his key in the lock, the door slowly opening before he finally comes in. He's carrying patient files—not enough for her to immediately jump up to help, but there's a substantial, notable amount. It seemed that no matter where he was he could make a more than decent living with his degrees, even though the names upon them have changed periodically. Blue eyes monitor him carefully, the ideas she has spinning around in her head, burning at her lowermost abdomen like a raging wildfire. The imagi alone is enough to get her excited.

"Hello, my dear…" He greets her, taking off his shoes. Lecter pushes them aside, noting how her heels are not there, or any shoes for that matter. Upon closer inspection, he sees the pair of heels on her feet. Curiosity came to those all too haunting and hypnotic maroon hues as this catches his attention. "Did you have errands as well?"

"Nope…" Her reply is short, simple. There is no need for it to be longer, she believes. Her lips remain pursed inward, moving from side to side almost playfully as her own eyes scan over her lover, knowing all too well what lie beneath the suit her wore.

"Clarice, I must admit… you have my attention." He speaks, saying what she already knows. "What have you been doing?"

"Oh, nothin' really… just thinkin'…" Her voice trails off as her eyes dart off to the side, her actions done in such a way as to tease him—more so than she usually would.

"Thinking, you say? What about? Nothing tedious or tormenting, I hope."

"Oh, no… nothin' like that…"

A soft chuckle leaves her lips in response, painted not. For a moment, her eyes go off again, this time looking somewhere else before returning to him.

"I was thinkin' we should do somethin' fun… somethin' different… new…"

Her voice drifts off yet again, though her eyes stay glued to him. Starling can feel her heart rate increasing at the signature smirk which came to his features, the corners of his lips tugging upward devilishly. Most of the time, that smirk would drive her insane. However, it was her turn to make him go crazy.

"What did you have in mind, _Clarice_?" His accentuated voice added even more emphasis to her name, which sent shivers down her spine—as if she wasn't turned on just by her thoughts already.

She sits back even further into the furniture, looking up from Lecter's body to his face. There's a substantial amount of wickedness there in those crystalline orbs. Her hand blindly guides itself towards the table beside her, pads of her fingertips dancing across the polished surface, leading her to the desired object. From it, Starling's digits draw up a blade. It was uniquely crafted—the blade about four inches long, give or take some length more equitable to half an inch than a quarter; the handle was a rather beautiful honey-color, a lioness carved above the letters 'C. M. S.'. She recalls the day that Lecter had brought it home, and now she has a superlative use for it.

"Well… it involves a few of our…" a pause transpires as she clears her throat. "…favorite toys."

Both of her hands go to playing with the blade for a long moment before tossing it up in the air, catching it by the handle with chilling expertise. Admittedly, she had wanted a reason to do that for quite some time. She was just glad her clumsiness had not kicked in then, cutting her hand up before she even pitched her idea to its full extent.

"What d' ya say, hmm? Wan' t' play?"

She waits there for his answer, hoping he would have taken the bait—so to speak. She watches, listens as Lecter chuckles in response, the sound deep and captivating to her all at the same time. She could hear the mischief there, so thick in the air that she swears if she reached out, she could feel it somewhere. Lecter takes off his suit jacket, expertly placing it on the back of a nearby chair. There's an electricity rushing throughout him in response to the custom made knife, one that Staling makes note of. She's got him—right where she wants him. As her hands work with the metal, she cannot keep from watching as his tongue permeates his lips, moistened them though it's apparent they need no such thing.

"For me to turn down such an offer would make me a fool, love. Do you think I am a fool?"

"Oh no, no, no. You should know that by now. It's 'xactly why I'm pitchin' it to you."

She grins, her own deviousness seeping from her as it did him. She cannot help but to note how he approaches her, movements slow yet sure, each step exciting her more than the one before it. Moments later, his fingers touch her, going from her temple to her cheek to her jawline and finally ending up at her neck. This time, it's Clarice's turn for the touch to crackle in her eyes. God, how she wanted him, she wanted him so badly it began to physically pain her. However, she understood all too well that she had to take her time…take this slow. No rushing would be allowed—for haste was not welcomed in this rendezvous.

So, given that, she sets aside just a brief moment to lose herself, leaning into his touch. Her eyes slip shut but then soon open again. As bright blues connect with those sinisterly colored ones Lecter possesses, she cocks her head back some, licking her lips in her own rather seductive manner.

"Then, why don't you be very good for me, and have a seat right beside me… how does that sound?"

_Let the games begin… _her mind instantly resounds, watching him sit down before standing up herself. She can see how enticed he is, her words and actions setting something loose within him—something far more wild than anything else. She's both surprised and not surprised by his obedience. As she stands there, her posture is straight, shoulders high and she feels quite queenly then, as regal as Lecter thought her to be. The sun shines in through the curtains, setting her hair ablaze. She appears much like a poetic mixture of the lioness on her knife, and a phoenix. It's something Lecter notes, and enjoys more so than he admits. As she paces around him in an oblong circle, she watches him closely, fingertips still playing with the weapon of which she had yet to use. He speaks—the words so low she barely catches them, though she does, and she notes how he's teasing her back. They sure did enjoy their back and forth banters, didn't they?

"As if I'm in for a surprise."

A breath of a laugh, guttural and far more sinister than even she knew she was capable of came from deep within her as she stops, glancing to him. She feels as though she will never get enough of just looking at him, and she's right. Slowly, her tongue darts from her mouth, licking her lips as her head turns slightly.

"Don't be so damn cocky, handsome… you're in for a real treat… as am i… see, that's the thing about this game, Hannibal—if anyone's even capable of walkin' away, we'll be doin' it happy."

Her West Virginia Accent is thick, laced with a carnal desire that only Hannibal Lecter had been able to unlock. A slight wag of her brow follows her words, and then, as if her body moved in only just a blur, she stands before him. In an even more swift motion, she straddles him, the blade between her teeth as her hands teasingly rub his pectoral muscles over his shirt. She feels them, and they make her even more excited—if that is indeed possible. After a while, she takes hold of the blade's handle and pulls it from her teeth, brushing the tip up and down his shirt. It is a good thing for Lecter and his shirt that she knows how to sew.

"Do you know what I plan to do with this, Hannibal Lecter?"

"I could hazard a few fairly probable guesses, though I have a very strong instinct that I will have preferred you to just show me…"

"Good answer,"

And with that, the knife cuts all the way up his shirt, slicing all the buttons off the fabric. The sound of them falling resounds in both of their ears, permanently locking it away in their memory palaces. She's careful; however, to not cut him in the process—there shall be a time for that, but not quite yet.

"Clarice…" The way he says her name sounds almost like a protest, though he does not say anything further.

"Hannibal…" She purrs against his ear as she pulls the article of clothing away from his frame and tossed it aside tactlessly.

With his upper torso exposed to her now, she cannot help but to feel impetuous. She has to remind herself that impulse is not allowed in this act and the ones to follow. Setting down the knife on the couch beside them, she reaches behind herself and gradually unzips her dress, before pulling it over her head. It too finds itself on the ground, as well as her shoes. She's bare to him now, but he is not. What a shame. Now she has to move. After undoing his belt and yanking at it with a bit of stubbornness, she moves to her knees before him and rids him of his trousers and socks and underwear. Starling finds a pleasant sensation fill her in response to his hardened shaft—a self-satisfied feeling, biting down on her lip roughly. Does she decide to give him a little satisfaction now, or does she wait? She waits. Straddling him again, she notes how his hand is sneakily and cautiously moving towards it, as if to take it for his own use on her. She takes it before he can, however, and makes a clicking sound of disapproval much like the one he had made years ago when he was still incarcerated. This is not how the game is to be played.

"Ah, ah… no," She speaks in a disciplinary tone, the knife to his throat. "It's not your turn yet, my heart."

"Turns, Clarice? Hmm…"

"Shhhhhh…."

With that, she lowers the blade from his neck to his clavicle, digging it into the skin just below the bone before cutting. It's not deep enough to do any terrible damage, but it is enough to draw blood. Leaning down, she lets her mouth go to work, licking it from him before kissing along him until she is at his neck. Having swallowed the blood, the taste still lingers there—and oddly enough, she's craving more. She begins to kiss the flesh of the left side of his neck, feeling him moaning beneath her lips. It deepens, deepens, deepens until she's biting him roughly enough to break the skin—more blood pooling into her mouth. Forcing herself to pull back from him, her mouth is covered in his sanguine fluid, eyes dark and animalistic. It arouses Lecter even more to see his lover this way—and he was his taste now. She's seconds from obliging him. Kissing him deeply, she sightlessly guides the metallic weapon into his hand before pulling back.

"Your turn."


	2. Not Yet

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. _

Her heart is beating so rapidly that Lecter can see the rhythm on the skin of her neck. Starling was excited—ready and anxious. He noted how well she had managed to contain herself, keep from being rash in her actions. For this, he had to admit, he was proud of the restraint. She was usually far hastier, and he had noted that long ago. She watched him closely as he tapped the tip of the knife against his full lips, thinking as his maroon eyes meandered over her lithe frame. She could tell he was giving careful consideration towards where to cut. She was also sure he could taste the blood on the knife, and smell how aroused she was. Her hands were perched on his shoulders, holding him there, and at the same time keeping her from speeding things along. He now had control—and could take even more of it should he wish to. While this was something neither were used to in their complex relationship, it was something Clarice was willing to do, if only just this once. It did seem that he was getting closer to a decision though, thankfully.

He takes the blade, going a few inches lower than where she had, stopping just an inch or two short of where her breasts started to curve. Gently, he guided it along, slow and steady. He does not aim to hurt her—never had and never would. As he watches the blood come to the surface, he is reminded of their conversation after consuming Paul Krendler. _You don't have to give up this one. _He never had and never would. Leaning down, he cleaned the blood from her pale flesh—the stark contrast not missed by him. All the while, one of his hands rubbed against her inner thigh, increasing the pleasure she felt. The benefit of being so skilled with anatomy (and of course, Clarice Starling)—he knew exactly where, how, and when to touch her to make her feel the most pleasure.

Blue hues dark with euphoria of the most adulterated forms slip shut against his touch and his acts. The sensations of pain and pleasure merged and gave her a high that she had yet to fully understand, though never questioned it for it was, for her, good. Whimpers of want fell from her parted lips, hands grasping tighter onto his shoulders. Lecter's hand then moved to touch her between her legs, feeling the arousal there, relishing in the fact that he had made her feel this way, before stimulating her. When there was no more blood to siphon from the wound, he created another one on her shoulder, shorter in length but just a tad bit deeper than the first. His mouth latched onto her there, the spot most likely going to have not only a scar but a hickey as well. He also reveled in the fact that by tomorrow morning both of them would have quite a collection of scars and bruises—and while they both already had their fair share of them physically, emotionally, and mentally—they would always remember who gave them the best ones; the ones made with the poetry of a twisted love and the skill of a blade.

"Hannibal…" Starling moaned, trying with much desperation to not sound as if she is begging, though it's quite apparent she is. _For fuck's sake, Hannibal… PLEASE...do not stop. _

He waits until there was no more blood to be wasted by talking before pulling back, grinning to her with a wolfish and sanguine smile. He licks the blade clean, setting it aside before cupping her cheek within his hand, caressing her badge of courage before finally letting words come.

"Yes, _Clarice…_" While Lecter loved that he finally had someone he trusted enough to let control him, if even in only a sexual sense—he could not help but to enjoy when she let him has his moments of control, and he took advantage—oh boy, did he take advantage.

"…" _Balls, he's going to make me say it. Fucking fuck shit balls. _"…I want more…more."

A falsified look of displeasure comes to his features, head cocking to the side as he observes the stubborn woman he found himself loving, despite how he loved so seldom that most thought him incapable of the emotion—even sometimes himself. He recalls on occasions, whenever they do exchange the soft whispers or passionate yells of their love—depending on the situation—when Lady Murasaki had told him there was nothing left in him to love. Apparently, Starling saw something in him to love. He was glad someone had, though he never voiced that thought.

"Perhaps, my dear Clarice; if you asked politely, I might consider giving you what you want."

Blue hues narrow with frustration in response to his remark—though it does not stun her in the slightest. Taking a calming breath, she then moves to rest her forehead against his, eyes locking intimately.

"Please, my dear Hannibal; may I have more of you—of what your hands are doin'?" There's a sarcastic manner in the way she says his name, but she's honest about wanting more. Starling hopes he will forgive the former for the latter.

"That's my girl." His words are nothing more than a breath as they are spoken against her lips. He moves back, kissing down her jawline. He pauses once he is at her neck before using his teeth to bite her there in a way much similar to the way she had done so to his own, only it is apparent he has his own way of going about it.

The taste of her blood is so profound and sweet on his tongue that his hand which was steady and still between her legs began to move quicker than before—quicker than he had originally intended. Sure, his prior tastes had been ecstatic in their own right, however there was something about the blood which came from that place, something pure, sweet, and outrageously intoxicating. She really knew how to make him wild with lust—something which rarely happened prior to their coming together. Her eyes slipped shut, mouth hanging open as she makes no attempt to remain silent. After all, the staff is off for the day, something which Clarice made sure of herself. The mansion of which they inhabited was free for them and their less than ordinary acts.

"Fuck! Ah, fuckin' hell!" She exclaims, no effort to restrain her foul language.

"Mm," this is Hannibal's only reciprocation, thrilled and driven by the words, the grunts of love.

After the sanguine fluid ceases to flow from the newest wound his has created, he pulls away. He likes watching as her body writhes above him, hair tossed back so it crashes like lava down her curved spine. He waits for just a few seconds—the moments passing oh so slowly—before pausing his hand, knowing she was just instances from her orgasm.

"Not yet."


	3. My Turn

_Take me. Take me. Take me. _

There is a notable frustrated expression on Starling's face, the denial of her orgasm causing her to inwardly explode with aggression. She wants so badly to hit him, but that's not their game. Not today. Her hands grip him tightly enough to cause him pain, nails digging into his flesh. She listens, the hissing sound he makes all too perceptible by the former agent. His hand is still between her legs, she has to take what she wants for herself, it seems. Dogged, the auburn-haired woman moves her hips against his hand, feeling herself growing closer—almost there… almost—there.

Knowing all too well what she is trying to accomplish, Lecter moves his hand away from her. To his lips it goes, the fingers drenched with her sweet nectar. _Honey in the lion, indeed._ He muses to himself as he licks them clean. The taste merges with the blood which still lingers on his tongue. It is enough for those red sparks in his eyes to brighten—like flames of desire. Then, and only then, does he simultaneously maneuver them so that she is down on the couch, back pressed firmly into the furniture. The knife is in his hand, held steady at her throat. Would he dare to harm her, though? Oh, no; not at all. The intent is simply explainable—it is designed to enthrall, to entice, to eroticize. He wants to please her, not punish. A grunt. A whimper. A pair of blue hues locking onto maroons. Both sets are so darkened by their lust for the other it is almost startling.

"Hannibal…" Starling's voice retains a hint of warning, as if she is prepared to be the one to punish, should she wish to do such a thing.

"Yes, my dear?" The question is spoken in such a way as to make him seem far more innocent than he truly is.

Lids narrow with a sudden hatred. She does not hate him, but boy does he get on her everlasting nerve at times! She speaks not in response to the inquiry, for no answer is truly necessary. Lips purse inward, vexation readable upon her face. _You're a real bastard sometimes, Hannibal Lecter_. She thinks to herself, watching him scan her—look her over a few times as if to admire her how she is, take in this rare moment. The blade moves from her neck, his free hand taking her two smaller ones before pinning them on the armrest above her head. What does he have planned? She does not know—only he does.

The dagger which he had grasped within his palm then goes to her innermost thigh. It is so close to where she truly wants him to touch her that it is enough to send ripples of chilling heat throughout her entire frame, though she tries, with much desperation, to keep her thighs from quivering too much. Nothing which happens here must be by mistake—all acts must be calculated, planned, and moreover thoughtful. Those inwardly pursed lips then push out, only to have the bottom one be captured by its host's teeth. Clamped upon them, those pearly whites dig into the flesh—waiting, waiting—waiting for his neck move. She had indeed wanted him to take her, though this was not exactly what she had had in mind.

As his hand, which is connected to a long, strong arm, keeps her hands pinned, he slithers down her frame in a snake-like manner. He leaves a trail of kisses, some rough and some nothing short of tender. Once his mouth is between his lover's legs, Lecter then lets the instrument glide along the ghostly-colored skin. She is left with no other choice then but to let out a moan, to find pleasure in it. Her back arches, all the while keeping herself from letting her legs move even a fraction. This game, while enjoyable, also had its tormenting parts. The denial was excruciating, no doubt. However, his dragging it out like this was even worse.

Lips, ones which are full and gaze-drawing, then move towards the blood trickling from the wound oh so slowly. He takes in her crimson essence, as well as the sounds Starling makes. He is cautious—careful to not waste a drop, and to not let any of it stain the couch. What a shame that would be? After all, he wants to be able to recollect, replay the memory every time he sits there in the future, whenever he so desires. While it is true this series of events, along with everything else, would be permanently locked away within his memory palace, it did feel good to be able to have a reminder—an object to draw retentions from.

Once his mouth is finished there, he moves just a fraction to the right, where he knows Clarice eagerly wants him. He can feel her beneath him, her body silently begging for more—and he is more than willing to oblige her. It frightens him just how much he is will to please her and at the same time get what he wants from this. More often than not, Hannibal finds himself frightened by her all together. He finds her surreal, to say the least. Almost as if he is trying to surprise her, he lets that all too skilled mouth go to pleasuring her, a tongue quite experienced in its own way giving in to her. This is as close to consuming her as he will ever allow himself to get. Not that she would give him cause to reconsider, for the thought alone is not something she could conceive.

The instrument which was capable of the utmost destruction in the right—or rather, wrong—hands yet simultaneous capable of fulfilling the most twisted of desires finds itself back on the table where it had been many moments ago, abandoned if only for the time being. He cares not about the blade, though. What he does invest his focuses on is getting Starling to her climax. He knows it won't take but a few more moments of their time. As the obscenely large clock resounds with the ending of the previous hour and beginning of the next, screaming of his name from a sweet yet smart southern mouth overrides that, her body relinquishing all its control. Her blue eyes flutter open after several moments to find him dangerously close to her own face, lips barely centimeters apart. Closing the distance, she raises herself up just a hair. Kissing him deeply, her legs wrap around his muscular frame. Despite their ages, both undoubtedly are in prime physical condition, which proves advantageous in regards to activities such as these.

Strong thighs clench around him, hands now free for use as soon as she has them flipped over so that her body hovers above him. A self-satisfied hum leaves her lips, head canting just slightly. Her fiery locks fall along with the movement. She allows one hand to wrap around his throat, threatening to apply just a bit of pressure. The other reaches over to grab the knife, the handle fitting quite perfectly within her palm. Mimicking him in a sort, she lets her tongue part her maws, running over them sinisterly. She then lets the steel caress her lover's chest, hair and skin alike being toyed with then.

"Clarice…" His accentuated words are thick with want and a very slight amount of objection, though he lets his yearning hide it quite well. He cannot help but to love it when she takes him like this. Admittedly, he enjoys it more than when he does so. This is something he found himself only liking with her.

That hand, which was on his throat, then slides slowly up Lecter's jaw, a sole finger pressing against his mouth. If there was any chance that he was disputing her actions, she was not about to hear any of it. She wanted this, and she was going to take it.

"My turn!"


End file.
